


Death Defines the Ground

by Lexacoon_Love



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Clexa, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Grounder Culture, Grounder Politics, I mean really slow burn, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2017-01-09
Packaged: 2018-09-07 23:59:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8821453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexacoon_Love/pseuds/Lexacoon_Love
Summary: Post season 2, before Jason Rothenberg ripped our hearts from our chests. Clarke leaves Camp Jaha to grieve on her own, but hold on... She might have to go through even more shit before she can begin to heal. Sloooow burn, Clexa goals. Little excerpt: "Bellamy had offered to share the burden of the mountain with Clarke, had offered her forgiveness. She knew it wasn’t something she could accept from him. Because although he had pulled the lever with her, it had been her decision to do it. Her decision that ended the lives of over 300 people. All Clarke could offer him was a soft kiss on the cheek, a kiss she hoped would express the war of emotions plaguing her heart as she prepared to walk away. She hoped the kiss would tell him how sorry she was, that she couldn’t be strong enough to face their people after bearing the cost of their survival in her soul. She didn’t want him to feel these things. She wanted her people to have peace. Bellamy included. So she walked away, and she could only hope his forgiveness extended to her still."





	1. Chapter One

Clarke has walked for days, avoiding any trails she comes across and sticking to the wilderness. She stops only when she hits the point of complete exhaustion each day, dropping to the forest floor to greet mostly sleepless, horror-filled nights. Rising when she can no longer stand to be still. She never looks back, and she very rarely takes in her surroundings. She walks with no direction, no purpose; she just wants distance between herself and anything she had come to know on the ground.

The ground. Clarke had only known death on the ground. She had witnessed death, caused death, come close to death herself. And she is tired. She doesn’t have the energy to see the beauty that surrounds her in the forest. She can only see death.

Every so often she lets herself think of her friends, hoping they are safe, hoping they aren’t plagued by the death that seems to cling to her, embedded in her soul. Clarke lets her mind linger on Bellamy, on the moments before she left him outside Camp Jaha. He had pleaded with her to stay, eyes welling with tears he never let spill, though the storm they held nearly knocked the breath out of her. She had only seen a similar look haunting his features when he thought Octavia was in danger. Those were some of the few moments he had let Clarke in, let her see past his defenses. She had grown to find comfort in these moments because for all his talk, Bellamy was just as terrified as the rest of the 100. She was privileged with his trust, despite the animosity they once held for each other.

Bellamy had offered to share the burden of the mountain with Clarke, had offered her forgiveness. She knew it wasn’t something she could accept from him. Because although he had pulled the lever with her, it had been her decision to do it. Her decision that ended the lives of over 300 people. All Clarke could offer him was a soft kiss on the cheek, a kiss she hoped would express the war of emotions plaguing her heart as she prepared to walk away. She hoped the kiss would tell him how sorry she was, that she couldn’t be strong enough to face their people after bearing the cost of their survival in her soul. She didn’t want him to feel these things. She wanted her people to have peace. Bellamy included. So she walked away, and she could only hope his forgiveness extended to her still.

She shakes her head of these thoughts. She took responsibility for the mountain so that her people didn’t have to, and she does not allow herself the comfort of forgiveness. She sees bodies whenever she closes her eyes: burnt, lifeless, faces twisted in pain. The same expression mirrored in Jasper’s face as he holds onto Maya, rocking her back and forth. These images pass through her mind constantly. Clarke feels the familiar pain in her stomach that tells her she hasn’t eaten in too long. She brought several food rations in her pack with her, but had conserved them as best she could over the past five days as she doesn’t really have an idea what she will do once they are gone. She brought her pistol with her, but she isn’t sure if she should use it to hunt or if she should conserve its bullets in case the need for protection arises. The gun and a makeshift knife from the dropship are her only weapons. She hates the way they feel pressed against her. The gun digs into her low back, tucked into her black pants, and the knife chafes her ankle, tucked into her boot. She keeps them there anyway, just another reminder of death that she can’t escape. The sun is beginning to set in front of her which tells her she is still facing west.

Clarke feels the familiar exhaustion spanning her limbs, causing her sore legs to ache and quiver. She comes to a stop at the wide trunk of a tree and plops herself on the ground, reaching around to pull her pack from her shoulder. She reaches inside to grab the last bit of dried meat and a leather pouch that holds a handful of berries. This is the last of her food, but she can’t bring herself to care. Maybe if she lets herself go hungry for a while her stomach will take some of the pain from her heart. Maybe it would just add more pain. Maybe Clarke wanted more pain. Yes, that’s it. She needs to feel the pain of 300 lives lost, going hungry is not even close to enough in the way of retribution.

The blonde leans her head back against the tree trunk when she finishes the last of the berries and begins to take in the woods around her. The trees are more spread out here than they had been near the drop ship, or even in the woods she walked through the day before. She wonders where she is, only knowing she must have walked long enough to get out of Trikru territory. Clarke never learned much about the clans surrounding Trikru, apart from the Azgeda. And even then she had only heard of Nia, the Ice Queen. Nia, who had taken Costia from – Clarke stops herself. She can’t bear to think the name. She knows if she lets herself think of… her… that she will turn around and do something stupid. The only feeling she knows beyond the pain of the mountain is the hatred she holds for the Commander, although it doesn’t come close to the hatred she holds for herself.

As the sun sinks lower through the trees, Clarke begins to shiver. She had been able to sleep without making a fire so far, but she suspects tonight may be different, if she is already cold before the sun has set. She rises shakily to her feet and feels a wave of dizziness hit her. Stumbling, she reaches for the tree trunk to steady herself, then begins to search for dead branches and twigs.

Once she collects enough for a small pile, she grabs the flint she brought and her pocket knife from her pack. The blonde begins to scrape them against each other, and after several clumsy tries, she is able to spark the dry moss she had collected and blow it into a flame. She continues to coax the small flame until it catches a thin branch, and she sits back against the tree once more. She knows it probably isn’t a good idea to start a fire in the open when she doesn’t know where she is. Someone could see the flame or the smoke and find her, but again, she can’t bring herself to care. Clarke can’t care about her future anymore. She is too consumed with her present, too consumed with her past. If someone finds her, so be it. She will accept whatever punishment fate has in store for her. She will welcome it.

Clarke reaches in her pack for her water canteen and takes a large swig. It’s almost empty. She had taken a chance and refilled it at a creek on her second day of walking, and again the day before, idly wondering if the water would make her sick. It hasn’t, but now she is almost out and has no clue where more water might be. She sips the remains from the canteen and places it back in her pack, then moves the pack to the ground near the fire. The blonde lays on her side, resting her head on the pack and staring into the fire. The flames lick up into the air in orange and yellow, but the last thing she sees as she drifts off to a surely restless sleep are deep green eyes and a red sash trailing away. “May we meet again.”

 

*****

 

It has been two days since Clarke ran out of food and water. She had changed her course to head north with the hope of finding running water, but to no avail. The blonde has slowed her pace considerably, finding exhaustion much quicker than the days previous. Exhaustion, hunger, and thirst. The pain in her stomach and throat reminding her that she is still alive, still able to bear the burden of her people.

Clarke slows her steps and shoots a glance around her at the sound of light tapping falling through the trees. Looking up, she feels a drop of water hit her cheek. It is beginning to rain, and Clarke feels a flush of relief rush her body, almost bringing a smile to her lips. She immediately slings the pack off her shoulders and grabs her canteen from within. Peering around, Clarke sees nothing but evergreens now surrounded by a light mist of rain. She silently curses herself for not bringing a better container for collecting water. She continues to move, this time with more purpose. She needs a way to funnel the falling rain water into her canteen.

After a few minutes the rain becomes heavier, now easily passing through the trees and hitting her body, beginning to sink into her clothes. Clarke turns her head to the sky and opens her mouth wide, desperate to quench her dry mouth and throat, giving up on the canteen for the time being. Large drops land on her tongue and sooth her aching mouth, then slither down her throat. She thinks maybe she has never felt such a physical relief in her life. As more and more drops make it into her mouth she begins to turn slowly, arms outstretched, head back and mouth open. She spins faster and faster, making herself dizzy but she doesn’t care. For just this moment, there is no weight on her shoulders, no burden crushing her heart. She is exhausted, shaky, weak, and it is as if the rain is washing some of her sorrow away – just for this moment, she is allowed to escape.

Something bubbles up from her belly, all the way to her throat and a noise escapes her open mouth. Laughter. It feels strange to her. Sounds strange too. She hasn’t let a single noise escape her mouth since her last words to Bellamy and it shows. Her voice is weak and scratchy, and though it hurts her dry throat, she continues to let the laughter invade the rain-filled woods. That is, until she falls to the ground, having spun one too many times. When her butt hits the forest floor and her arms reach to brace her fall, the laughter that fills the mist shifts to a sob, and another, and the noise that comes out of her next is a strangled scream. Clarke brings her knees to her chest and slams her shoulder to the ground, bringing her arms to wrap tightly around her shins. Pain sears through her heart and spreads to her chest, to her belly, and she lets out another scream. Her eyes are dry from dehydration but she knows she should feel tears wet her cheeks as she lets out another sob. The rain begins to fall even harder, as if to answer her body’s need to cry. Rain drops hit the side of her pain-warped face. It permeates through her hair and clothes. She continues to squeeze her legs to her chest, rocking a little from side to side and after several long minutes, the pain searing through her body begins to lessen. She opens her eyes and tries to focus on the sideways trees in front of her rather than the bloody, burnt bodies that are painted to the inside of her eyelids.

Clarke is drenched, and the right side of her body is beginning to get caked in mud as the rain seeps into the earth. Slowly loosening her grip on her legs, she begins to shift into a sitting position. She needs to collect this water before the rain subsides, and she’s already wasted enough time feeling sorry for herself. The girl rises slowly to her feet and walks toward a fallen tree that’s clearly been dead for a while as its outer bark is beginning to break down. She grips at a chunk of bark and tugs, prying it loose from the trunk. She pulls a few more chunks away from the trunk and walks back to where she had fallen before, sitting down once more.

There is a slight break in the trees directly above her, allowing more water to fall through and reach her. Clarke grabs the canteen from the ground near her and places it in front of her crossed legs, then aligns three pieces of bark in her hands to curve into a half circle and touches the edge of her makeshift funnel to the mouth of her canteen. The water that lands on the angled bark runs down it and into her canteen, slowly beginning to fill it. She watches the process in silence, focusing entirely on the now water-soaked bark so her mind can’t wander. Rain continues to soak Clarke’s hair and body and she figures it’s probably a good thing as she is filthy from days of walking and nights of sleeping on the ground.

After what feels like hours, Clarke’s canteen is finally full. She had shifted her head back, open mouth toward the sky a while ago so she wouldn’t use up her newly collected water right away. Her neck aches from craning it back all this time and her body is still shaky from lack of food. But her throat isn’t burning with thirst anymore, and the pounding in her head that she forgot was there has begun to subside, so she rises stiffly to her feet once more. This is the first time it has rained since she began her aimless wandering, and she is uncertain what to do for the night. The rain has not lessened and she doubts it will before the fast approaching nightfall, so she starts to wander again, this time in search of some form of shelter. Clarke feels a shiver run down her spine. She is completely drenched and the heat is quickly escaping her body as the temperature continues to drop. She knows she needs to make a fire tonight to keep from getting hypothermic but she has no idea how she’ll be able to keep a fire lit, let alone start one in this rain.

About an hour has passed when the ground begins to slope up and the terrain shifts from only trees to trees and mossy sheets of rock, placed sporadically through the forest. The ground is more uneven here. She had grown used to flatness of the forest and she finds herself struggling more over small hills and valleys than before. Clarke approaches one of the bigger mounds of rock and begins to climb its slippery surface in an effort to get to higher ground. She thinks maybe she will be able to see farther if she can get to the top. She pulls herself up onto the next chunk of rock from the one on the ground, and as she steps around the side of it to reach the third, her foot slips into the crack between the two. She yanks her leg to free her foot but her boot doesn’t budge. She’s stuck.

Clarke begins to shimmy her foot in an effort to loosen it, and when a piece of rock shifts she finally pulls her boot free, but not before she hears a bit of an echo of what sounds like rock hitting rock. She looks back to where her boot had been moments before and notices the space between the rocks is wider. The rain water that slides down the boulder above where her foot had been begins to fall into the hole and she can hear it hitting the ground below. There is a cave beneath her. A shiver of a sigh passes her lips as she begins to maneuver around the boulders, looking for a way in.

After several minutes of searching, the shivering blonde finds several smaller chunks of rock that are loose near the base of the boulders. She begins to move them aside one at a time until there is a space just big enough for her to crawl through, and she does. The inside is nearly pitch black, but for the small opening in the ceiling where water is dripping through and the opening she had just made. The drops splatter to the stone floor with an echo that makes Clarke think this cave must be bigger than it looks from the outside. Another shiver ripples through her body and her teeth begin to clatter. She needs to warm up. She needs to make a fire.

Clarke makes her way back out into the rain soaked forest in search of firewood and returns a few minutes later with a bundle of wet wood in her arms. She pushes each log in one at a time, then follows them into the cave. It takes her much longer to get a fire going this time, as her kindling and wood is wet. She does finally coax a flame from the leftover dried moss of her first fire and it begins to catch on the pile of wood. By now the girl is shaking violently from the cold and the young fire does not warm her fast enough. Quivering arms begin to pull off her jacket, her shirt. Nearly numb fingers tug at the laces on her boots. She strips down to nothing, sitting her bear butt on the cold stone floor of the cave. Once her clothes are laid out around the fire she starts to feel its warmth seep through her wet skin and her body slowly calms its shivering.

Clarke’s body begins to relax, but the less she shivers the more her mind wanders to thoughts of the mountain and thoughts of her people, and she feels the heavy burden of the dead drape across her shoulders once more. She hadn’t realized that those thoughts had been kept at bay while she searched for shelter. Having a bit of purpose had given her mind and heart the calm, steady determination she didn’t think she was still capable of. She feels a small sense of pride creep in next to the sorrow and guilt in her heart. She had done something to survive that didn’t involve taking a life. She is safe in this warming cave, and she didn’t need to hurt anybody to achieve that safety. She doesn’t quite feel relief, but a small weight is lifted from her when she realizes there is a part of herself, however slight, that she can still recognize. At least a small part of her is still Clarke, is still the girl she was before she became a murderer to save her people. Clarke isn’t completely lost to death. And she lets that small notion wash over her as she drifts off to sleep.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke continues surviving, and SPOILER we may see our favorite little Heda at some point...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thanks so much for reading! And thanks to those who left kudos/comments. I'm having so much fun writing this and I hope you're having fun reading it! I'd say I spend twice as much time fleshing out everything in the 100 universe as I do actually writing the chapters, and I love doing both. Lots of fun stuff planned for later!

Echoed footsteps fill her ears as she makes her way down the harshly lit corridor. Clarke can feel her heart pounding in her throat, blocking a sob that yearns to escape. The door to the dining hall is just ahead, and Bellamy walks next to her, silently looking at it as they approach. Putrid burning flesh greets her nose as she steps through the open doorway and all she can see is red. Red, blistered skin pulled taught over the faces of 382 men, women, and children, piled on the floor. She hears a low, growl of a laugh from behind her and she turns abruptly to see Cage leering at her a few feet away. To his left stands Carl Emerson, to his right, the Commander. They all begin to laugh at her, hatred alight in their eyes.

“It’s over, Clarke,” says Cage, predatory smile lacing every word. “Your people are dead.”

Clarke turns back around and a sharp gasp floods her lungs. There are no longer blistered bodies. In their place lay the remaining 47, pooled in the blood that flows from bullet holes littering their bodies. Their eyes are open and staring at Clarke. Bellamy is no longer next to her, but laying at the front of the pile clutching Octavia to his chest, a bullet wound in both their skulls. The blood seeps to her boots and when she looks down she sees a gun clutched in her hand, finger on the trigger. “No,” she breathes. “No. NO! I can fix this…” She scrambles to the pile and drops to her knees, letting the blood drench her pants. Clarke drops the gun and presses her hands to the bullet wounds, trying to stop the bleeding. Her mother approaches from the left and she feels relief fill her. “Mom! Mom, help me stop the bleeding!” But Abby just stands there.

Clarke looks up to her, breath hitching in her chest when she meets Abby’s dark gaze. “Their blood is on your hands, Clarke. You can’t wash it off this time.”

Clarke wakes with a jolt, sitting bolt upright. A thick layer of cold sweat coats her naked body, tears spilling over her cheeks and running down her neck. Flashes of the dead 47 still plague her vision through the darkness of the cave. The fire has long since been extinguished and the cave is cold and silent, but for the constant dripping of rain water through the crack in the rocks above. There is no light coming through the crack, telling Clarke that it’s still the middle of the night. Her throat is raw and she assumes she was screaming in her sleep.

The drained and shaky girl shifts to her hands and knees and feels around for her clothes. She is relieved to find her pants dry, as are the rest of her clothes. She slowly puts each piece on, one at a time, covering her sweaty body. The rain had washed some of her stink out of the pieces, but her body still reeks.

Once dressed, Clarke slowly rises to her feet, bracing herself against the wall of the cave for the dizziness that is sure to come. She makes her way to the entrance and crawls through. Her bladder is throbbing and she is shivering, so she sets out into the rain to relieve herself and to collect more wood, hoping it won’t be too wet to catch a flame.

Clarke’s gun feels heavy pressed into her back, having replaced it in her pants out of habit. It feels heavy with the lives of the 47 that she took in her nightmares. She can still feel their blood dripping from her hands, though she reminds herself it’s just rain water that coats them now. ‘They’re still alive, they aren’t the ones I murdered’ she thinks to herself. The thought isn’t as comforting as it should be, because it just reminds her of all the lives she really took. These thoughts race through the girl’s mind as she piles more and more branches into the cave. The sky is beginning to lighten ever so slightly and she thinks it must be close to dawn. The pain in her stomach is sharp, she can feel it breaking down in nothing but the acid that remains within it. She needs to eat. She knows this, but she doesn’t care right now. There is nothing she can do about it.

Once back in the cave, she sets to work trying to ignite a flame that never comes. She has used up almost all of her dried moss, but the wet wood just won’t catch. After what seems like an hour, though probably less, she throws her knife as hard as her weak arm lets her and it clatters against the rock wall opposite her. She gives up. Maybe she could just die in this cave, shivering and starving with nothing but the dead bodies in her mind to keep her company. Clarke lets that thought fill her body and she waits, closing her eyes and leaning against the wall. She shakes and she waits for death.

But death doesn’t come. Instead, light begins to pour through the crack in the ceiling and the opening of the cave a few feet away. The morning brings more rain with it, and the blonde resigns to staying wet as she makes her way back out of the cave. This time, she’s in search of food. She wanders the woods for most of the morning, careful to keep track of where she is in relation to the cave. She has managed to pocket a handful of berries that she recognizes, but she knows she needs more than berries. Clarke stops and leans against a tree, letting herself sink to the wet forest floor and taking her canteen out of her pack. She had been letting water fall into her mouth periodically throughout the morning, but the rain hadn’t made the pounding in her head subside, so she takes several large swigs of water and immediately feels a rush through her head, calming the throb. 

In addition to the berries, Clarke had picked up a few jagged-edged rocks, which she now begins to rub against each other in an effort to sharpen them. It takes her mind away from the familiar thoughts of death and she loses herself in the motions for a while. She has no idea how much time passes, but eventually she stops and looks at the rocks, now quite sharp. Satisfied, she starts to rise to her feet, but as she braces herself against the trunk she hears the snap of a twig interrupt the rain spattered forest floor. The startled girl shoots a look around her, and catches a small form between the trees several yards away. A young deer makes its way through the woods, unaware of Clarke, who crouches back down to hide herself.

The blonde slowly reaches for the gun pressed into her back and grips the cold metal in her hand. She hates it. Peering down she sees her hand quiver, gun shaking slightly. Clarke has to do this. She has no choice. She can’t continue to survive without causing death. She had known that the purity of her survival would be short lived, but knowing it doesn’t take the ache or regret away from what she has to do. A tear escapes her and runs down her cheek as she slowly and silently takes aim. Finger placed on the trigger, she takes a deep breath and stills the quivering hands wrapped around the gun. She had no choice. She has no choice. ‘I have no choice.’ Clarke squeezes the trigger and watches as the young deer is hit in the shoulder and drops to the ground, squirming. The shot rings in her ears as she makes her way quickly to the deer, drawing her knife from her boot. The deer is still alive, clearly scared and in pain. She had meant for the bullet to kill the deer, but of course she had to cause it unnecessary pain. It’s what she does best.

Clarke drops to her knees next to the doe and presses one hand onto the doe’s neck, the other sliding the blade into its throat. “Yu gonplei ste odon,” she whispers, as more tears spill onto her cheeks. She leans back and sits her butt on top of her tucked feet, taking a deep, shaky breath. The doe is still now, blood staining her fur and eyes still open and frozen in fear. Flashes of a funeral pyre invade Clarke’s mind as she remembers the last time she uttered those words. Le-- the Commander had given her the torch to set the bodies ablaze, rather than doing it herself, as Clarke was sure tradition had called for. The Commander had given her the opportunity to lay Finn’s soul to rest, and Clarke’s heart filled with a different kind of ache at the thought. It wasn’t something the Commander had to do, but she did it, for Clarke.

A new flood of tears rush her cheeks as the blonde shakes her head. No. It doesn’t matter what the Commander did or didn’t do for Clarke at the time. Because when it counted, at the mountain, she only acted for herself and her people. She didn’t matter to the Commander then, she doesn’t matter to the Commander at all. And she doesn’t want to. Hatred replaces the ache that Clarke’s heart was too weak to shut out, and she roughly wipes the tears from her face. A hate-fueled resolve charges through her veins until the tears stop flowing and her hands stop shaking. Clarke is cold, focused. She pulls the knife from the doe’s throat and slides the knife in again, this time making messy work of removing its skin like she had seen Bellamy’s cronies do with the panther. She focuses entirely on the task at hand, no longer concerned with the life she has just taken.

When she is finished skinning the doe, Clarke begins to remove large chunks of meat and lays them in a pile on the ground, rain washing away the blood that covers them and her hands. She knows it is only a short walk back to the cave, but the starving blonde doesn’t want to make two trips so she stops when there is a sizable amount cut away, and piles it in her arms. The remaining blood on the meat covers her wet shirt and jacket and Clarke thinks it suits her, the killer that she is.

By the time she reaches the cave, the wood Clarke had collected earlier that morning was no longer dripping, and after several tries she is finally able to get it to light from the moss. It makes for a very smoky fire, however, and it isn’t long before Clarke is back outside in the rain, no longer able to breathe easily inside. She had laid several slices on the outer logs of the fire and goes back in periodically to check on them. The longer they cook, the more desperate she gets. Clarke’s mouth is watering and her stomach is screaming at her when she finally yanks one of the slices from a log and takes it back out into the rain. It burns her nearly numbed hands but she can’t wait any longer, so she takes a small chunk in her teeth and starts chewing. A loud groan slips out just before she swallows, the barely chewed meat scalding the back of her throat but she doesn’t care. She immediately takes another bite, and another, until it's gone.

As soon as the rest of the meat has finished cooking Clarke lays it out to cool and begins to work on the entrance of the cave. She needs to make it bigger so the smoke can escape quicker. She had only eaten two strips of meat, stopping herself from eating too much at once as that is sure to make her vomit. Besides, she has no idea when she will come across her next meal source, so she has to conserve.

Clarke is able to double the size of the cave’s opening and smoke rushes out. It gradually lessens as the weeping sky begins to darken. The fed but shivering girl makes her way back to the cave to warm up by the fire, once again stripping out of her soaked clothes and laying them out to dry. After two full days of walking in the pouring rain, Clarke’s clothes are almost clean and even her body feels fresher. She grabs the sharpened shards of rock from her pack and begins to scratch out patterns into the stony floor next to her. Every so often she adds more wood to the fire, and because it has had some time to dry out, there isn’t much smoke polluting the cave anymore. When the only source of light left in the cave are the licking flames in front of her, Clarke sets the rocks aside and lays down, ready to take on a horror filled sleep once more.

 

*****

 

“Em don ste hon op”

“Hanch taim?”

“Thotin sintaim”

“She is far?”

“No, Heda. She is in Podakru territory, a quarter day’s walk from Klandon.

“Then why am I only being informed of this now?” The question comes out a little harsher than she intends.

“I remained in position for several days to ensure Wanheda’s safety before returning to report. I also had to leave my horse in a village just west of the Podakru border. It was too difficult to remain hidden on horseback, so I continued on foot, but doing so lengthened my return journey.”

“And?”

“The newcomer does not pose a threat, Heda.”

“How can you be sure?”

“She brought Wanheda herbs. For her stomach illness. The next day she brought food and water. Wanheda was… Cautious, at first. But she relented to accept the newcomer’s assistance after a while.”

“Who is she?”

“She appears to be just a Klandon villager. I tracked her there after the second day. She has Trikru warrior markings, Heda, but Podakru insignia as well. I believe she is no longer a warrior, but a hunter for her village. She bears the hunter’s torc.”

“I see.” Lexa stands from her throne and makes her way to the balcony, but stops just short of the door. She clasps her hands behind her back as she looks down on Polis in thought. Clarke is safe, and someone tends to her. Perhaps a villager drawn to the legend of Wanheda? Regardless, it seems this newcomer has no ill will towards Clarke. She is surprised the blonde is accepting help, and wonders how desperate she must be. Lexa closes her eyes and takes in a deep breath, shoulders sagging slightly as she exhales. She hates this. She wants nothing more than to seek Clarke out herself, to see to it that the blonde is safe by her own hands and not the hands of a scout and some Podakru hunter. But Clarke left her people to wander the woods. Clearly, whatever she had to do in that mountain haunts her, and Lexa will not interfere with her healing. And surely the last person Clarke wants to see is the Commander. “Mochof, Kobus,” she says, turning back to face her scout. Her hands remain clasped behind her and she has pushed her shoulders back once more, steeling herself for her company. The Commander will not let her scout see that Clarke has such an effect on her. Nor anyone else, for that matter. “Are you rested?”

“I-- Well, no, Heda. I sought your audience immediately,” Kobus replies with a slight bow of his head.

“Very well. Eat, rest, but depart by nightfall. The rules of engagement still stand. Only make yourself known should the circumstances require such. And protect Wanheda by whatever means necessary. Onstan op?”

“Sha, Heda,” Kobus confirms, bowing his head. He turns to leave, and two guards enter as soon as he is gone. Lexa had dismissed the guards upon Kobus’s arrival, wanting to keep his assignment as private as possible. She knows it is intrusive to have Clarke followed, but the Commander is unwilling or simply unable to leave her be. Clarke would likely be unforgiving after the mountain, she knows, but the need to keep the blonde safe is stronger than her charge to remain uninvolved. Kobus is one of her best scouts, and is especially capable in longer assignments such as this, as he improvises well. She trusts him to ensure that Clarke remains safe.

Her thoughts are interrupted when the doors to the throne room open once more, and Titus makes his way to the base of the stairs. He wears his usual black robes and cowl as well as his usual surly expression. Lexa returns to her throne and gives Titus a curt nod, inviting him to speak.

“Heda, Luna kom Floudonkru and Taand kom Ouskejonkru have arrived for the festival. They are settling into their quarters now.” Lexa gives another nod, and waits. Titus’s demeanor is even more wary than usual, so she knows he’s getting ready to argue with her. “Luna requested that I pass along her desire for your audience at your convenience.”

Of course she did. The Floukru leader hasn’t been here more than five minutes and she already wants to talk, but Lexa expects nothing less from her old friend. “You may tell her that I will come to her quarters for midday meal.”

“Sha, Heda,” he replies. But he doesn’t motion to leave.

“Something else, Titus?” Lexa has to stop herself from rolling her eyes at the sulking man.

“Sha, Heda,” he says again, taking another step toward her. Lexa crosses one leg over the other and inclines her head slightly, waiting. “I hoped that we might revisit the subject of Skaikru’s presence at the festival.”

Lexa fails to hold back her eye roll this time. “We have spoken on this subject, Titus. I believe it was determined that I would let my offer stand, should the Skaikru accept the invitation to join us in Polis for the festival. The Felling of the Mountain would not have been possible without them, and we must attempt to soothe whatever grievances they now hold for us.”

Titus looks like he might interrupt her, so she throws a hand up and raises her voice slightly. “I left them at the Mountain, Titus, and in doing so I very well could have shattered the already delicate alliance I forged with them. I will do everything in my power to rectify that, as we do not need to make an enemy out of Skaikru. How would you have me do that, if not by inviting them to the very festival that celebrates their own accomplishment?”

“Heda, respectfully, that is precisely the reason you must reconsider your decision!” Titus almost shouts, then pauses to take a breath when Lexa raises a brow at him. She knows he is only trying to protect her, so she doesn’t reprimand him for raising his voice. Instead, she lets him continue. “They cannot be trusted. We have no idea what they might attempt if they do in fact hold us in contempt for abandoning them. You endanger your life and the lives of the people of Polis by allowing a possibly hostile--”

“En pleni!” Lexa growls, rising to her feet. She has lost her patience with this man. She looks past Titus to the guards by the door. “Hon Remi op. Lid em in,” she orders one of the guards. As the guard leaves the room, Lexa steels herself and looks back to Titus. There is still passion burning in his eyes and she knows he will not be appeased.

Lexa holds his gaze for several long moments while they wait, and they remain that way in silence until the door to the throne room opens once more. In walks Remi, followed by the guard who had retrieved him. Remi makes his way up the long strip of red carpet that leads to Lexa’s throne, which she is now tensely standing in front of, arms locked to her sides.

“Heda,” he addresses her once he is standing next to Titus. He inclines his head as he speaks, in a show of respect.

The Commander doesn’t break eye contact with Titus as she addresses the newcomer. “Remi. Titus has expressed the concern that I risk my life and the lives of my people by allowing Skaikru to attend the festival in a few days’ time,” she says. Finally breaking her gaze to look at Remi, she continues. “Would you please assure him that he frets for nothing?”

“Sha, Heda.” Lexa can see the grin that Remi is barely concealing as he turns his attention to Titus, who still glares at the Commander. “I have arranged for a party of five guards to accompany Heda at all times, as well as for ten concealed warriors to maneuver through the crowd and remain nearby, should any danger arise. Additional warriors will supervise members of Skaikru, discretely. As we discussed,” he adds, turning his gaze back to an amused Commander. She can see Titus wants to say more, but she thinks he knows better.

Evidently, she is wrong. “Beja, Heda--”

“I have taken your concerns under advisement. You may deliver my message to Luna now.” It isn’t an offer so much as an order, and a tone of finality laces her words. Recognizing that he has lost this battle, Titus gives a brusque nod and turns on his heel to exit the room. As soon as the doors close behind him, Lexa relaxes her stance. Oh, how that man could get under her skin. Four years as Heda had helped her to develop composure, but Titus was constantly testing it. “Mochof, Remi,” she says, letting a grin touch her lips.

“He is only trying to look out for your best interests” Remi replies with a nod towards the door.

“He is short sighted and overly cautious. Sullen. Does he honestly think Skaikru will make an attempt on my life in a city full of my people and my warriors? There may be some who despise me, but not even they would be so foolish.”

“I didn’t say I agree with him, Lexa, just that he’s doing what he thinks he must. After all, what would become of his reputation if he did not question your every decision?” A sly smile plays in his eyes and Lexa gives him a small chuckle.  

“I concede your point,” she says with a sigh. “He must remain contentious or else he’ll surely see the day that my spirit moves on to another.”

Lexa makes her way down the steps and towards the door. Remi follows. She has calmed considerably from the confrontation with Titus, and the brunette thinks she surely would have lashed out and attacked Titus years ago if not for Remi’s support. Only a few summers older than herself, he had immediately grown on Lexa when he became Gustus’s second, and they had developed a kind of camaraderie over her years as Heda. She knows he would sacrifice himself for her without hesitation, as that is his duty. But he is also one of her only true confidantes, and that fact comforts her more than his duty to protect her ever could. “I am going to Luna’s quarters. Enjoy your afternoon. I will send for you if I intend to leave the tower.”

“Sha, Heda. Enjoy your meal.” Remi turns down the hall towards the lift and Lexa turns in the opposite direction to the stairs, four guards flanking her as they descend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> “Yu gonplei ste odon” – Your fight is over  
> “Em don ste hon op” – she was found  
> “Hanch taim?” – How long ago? (literal translation: ‘how much time?’ I couldn’t find anything to the effect of “how long ago, so I improvised…)  
> “Thotin sintaim” – thirteen days  
> Podakru – Lake people (I don’t plan on translating this every time)  
> Wanheda – Commander of Death, aka Clarke after the mountain  
> “Mochof, Kobus.” – Thank you, Kobus.  
> “Onstan op?” – Understand? (Totally made this up, couldn’t find a translation for ‘understand.' Heads up: I'll probably use it again...)  
> Floudonkru/Floukru – Boat people  
> Ouskejonkru – Blue Cliff people  
> “En pleni!” – Enough!  
> “Hon Remi op. Lid em in” – Find Remi. Bring him here.  
> “Beja, Heda” – Please, Commander
> 
> Phew! So that was a longer chapter, but so much fun to write. I hope you guys agree with my take on Lexa but PLEASE comment if you think I should adjust! She’s everybody’s favorite gay raccoon badass and I want to do her justice. I’m also having fun introducing this other side of her, it’s fun to see her chill out and let down her guard with someone she trusts and respects so she’s not always such a robot. But everything in moderation! (She can still kick Titus’s ass back into shape.)  
> What do you think of Remi??
> 
> I’m playing around with time lapses here, both in this chapter and probably the next one or two, so let me know if it gets confusing or frustrating. As I’ve said before, I’ve never written before, so I’m still feeling it out.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Much love!


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thanks so much for your kudos and comments, they mean a lot to me! I'm pretty happy with this chapter, and it's so much longer than the first two! I suspect this will be the length of most of the rest of them, too...
> 
> Please let me know what you think of it!

Clarke makes her way slowly through the trees, loud footsteps thumping the earth and crunching twigs. The ruckus she is making is the only sound she hears, as her companion moves gracefully and without noise four or five yards in front of her. Clarke is still wary of this woman, despite the help she has accepted from her. The grounder’s long brunette braids reach down to the middle of her back, laying beneath the bow and quiver that are strapped across her body. She wears typical dark grounder clothing, lots of straps and ties fastening different pieces together, and there are also quite a few weapons secured to her body. Two daggers are tucked into her thick cloth pants, one below each hip, and a short sword is sheathed at her left side. There is an engraved metal band around her neck that Clarke wonders at, as she has never seen grounders wear jewelry. The woman has said nothing since she first appeared in Clarke’s cave four days ago, having brought a water skin full of a warm herbal liquid and given it to the blonde.

Clarke had been vomiting most of that day and the preceding night. Her last bit of conserved deer meat had evidently spoiled, making her very sick. She could barely move but for the periodic heaving her body forced her through, and Clarke had surrendered to it, sure that the illness would deliver her to death. But then the woman showed up. She placed the water skin in front of Clarke, who was laying on her side on the stony cave floor. After overcoming her initial shock from the woman’s appearance, the blonde stared at the water skin for a long time while the grounder woman stared at Clarke. The stranger planted herself against the opposite wall from her, sitting in silence and staring her down. After another long round of dry heaving (as there was nothing left to come up), Clarke took the water skin in her hand. She sniffed it, and the smell didn’t trigger her nausea, so she took a sip.

She immediately felt relief as the warm liquid settled in her stomach, so she kept sipping it until it was gone. The second she finished, the woman rose to her feet, grabbed the container, and left the cave without a word. Clarke was left in the darkening cave thoroughly confused but slightly rehabilitated. The heaving had stopped, and she was able to finally sleep.

The next day Clarke woke to the woman sitting in the same spot as before, but this time there was a cloth wrapping in place of the water skin. Again, Clarke stared at it for a long time, the two women sitting in silence. After a while Clarke rose to her feet, still very shaky and weak from the previous day. However, she was surprised to find that the nausea had gone. She stole a glance at the woman, who remained seated, before Clarke left the cave. Her bladder was throbbing from the drink she had the day before, so she walked several trees away to relieve herself. She briefly considered walking away rather than returning to the cave, but her pack was still there, so she relented and made her way back.

When she reached the cave she found the woman standing, examining the walls and floor of the cave, on which Clarke had scratched several images with the sharpened rock shards. Clarke followed her gaze to the mural that she had spent the most time on and immediately felt exposed, vulnerable. Bodies were piled in heaps, eyes open and staring at the viewer, faces mutilated with blisters. Clarke had drawn herself in the heap in the same condition as the rest of the bodies. It was where she belonged, where part of her would always remain. Dead in the mountain.

The woman said nothing as she continued to study the image, and Clarke sat back on the stone floor and examined the cloth to give herself something to do. She didn’t like this stranger intruding on her state of despair, but it was too late to do anything about it. So she picked up the package and unwrapped it. Clarke remembers smelling the contents and hears her stomach growl at the memory. It was some of the most flavorful meat Clarke had ever tasted and she couldn’t help the moan that escaped her throat when she swallowed the first bite. But that was the last noise Clarke had made. Now, four days later, she continues on in silence, following the mysterious woman.

After a couple hours of walking, the woman stops and grabs the same water skin from days previous, holding it out towards Clarke, who is still making her way over. Clarke takes it without a word and sniffs it. Determining that it must be water, she takes a gulp, then another, and she continues until it’s almost gone. She hasn’t realized just how thirsty she is until now. Clarke hands the container back to the woman, who turns on her heel and continues walking. After a few moments, Clarke follows.

As they walk the blonde begins to wonder how long this grounder had been following her. She realizes that with the amount of noise she makes with each step it’s a miracle someone hadn’t found her earlier. She supposes she is lucky that the first person to find her had helped her rather than hurt her, but Clarke finds that she doesn’t really care either way. The girl’s desire to live is still significantly lacking, and she thinks her body must be taking charge of the survival that is too much of a burden for her mind and her heart to manage.

The blonde is distracted from her thoughts when she sees a tall canvas structure in the distance between the trees. As the two women approach, more and more structures come into view, some canvas like the first and some more permanent looking, and Clarke realizes this woman must be taking her to a village. The blonde freezes in her tracks. The woman hears her stop and turns to look at her, face remaining stoic as ever. They hold each other’s gaze while a torrent of emotions silently floods through Clarke.

She is not ready for human contact. This woman doesn’t count because she hasn’t spoken to her, and Clarke knows she isn’t ready to be near anybody else. It had taken a great deal of deliberation to decide to follow the grounder earlier that day, as Clarke had known she should return to solitude rather than prolong the woman’s company. But the blonde had let curiosity get the best of her as the woman stood there watching her, having motioned with her head to follow. And now Clarke is regretting her decision.

Clarke’s breathing quickens as these thoughts surge her mind and she abruptly turns on her heel to make a break for it, stopping after just a few steps. Something about the blonde’s silent companion draws her in, makes her pause. Whoever this is seems to sense that Clarke doesn’t want company, but she has maintained her steady presence for almost a week regardless. Her actions have been full of wordless understanding, and Clarke realizes she has found slightly more comfort with the woman’s presence than without. The blonde slowly turns back to the woman, who hasn’t moved an inch through Clarke’s internal debate. After several moments the woman makes her way to a nearby tree and slides down to sit against it, eyes holding Clarke’s gaze the whole time. The girl is reassured somewhat by the action, and moves to do the same.

They sit like that – a few feet away from each other and a few yards away from the village – for a long time. Clarke’s racing thoughts and breath have slowed, and she continues to be calmed by the woman’s gaze. There are laugh lines around her eyes, partially obscured by a swirling tattoo that spans her forehead to her jaw, but much more prominent lines surround her mouth, and Clarke thinks this woman must have stopped laughing a long time ago. She looks younger than the blonde’s mother, but there is a heaviness in her gaze and posture that reveals her old, tired soul.

It is nightfall by the time Clarke rises to her feet and her companion does the same. Turning toward the village, the brunette begins to walk, and Clarke follows silently. There is nobody around as they make their way down the main path and they walk slowly, the blonde taking in her surroundings. Most of the dwellings are constructed from a combination of wood, scraps of metal, and canvas, and some seem to have been built into the cement remains of buildings from the old world. Several torches burn along the path they are on, providing just enough light for Clarke to see several stands lining a plaza up ahead, each covered in a canvas material. She suspects that they are trade stands shut down for the night.

The village reminds her of Tondc, although it is much smaller. Clarke follows the woman in front of her as she shifts directions to move down a narrower path between several buildings. After just a short walk, they appear to have made it to the other end of the village, and the brunette stops outside the door of a small hut. She looks back at Clarke, who has stopped a few feet away, unsure of what to do. She doesn’t know why this woman has brought her here and she’s almost tempted to speak, to ask what she is supposed to do. But before she has the chance, the woman opens the door and walks in, leaving the door open in her wake. The blonde figures that’s as good an invitation as any, so she walks through the open door and shuts it behind her.

The room they stand in is lit by a dying fire in a corner hearth as well as several candles that are placed throughout the room. Various trinkets adorn the walls and several shelves and there is a wooden table and two chairs in the middle of the room. A warped metal door in the back wall separates them from what Clarke assumes is a bedroom. On the far side of the room near the hearth sits a metal wash basin and Clarke surveys it longingly, suddenly aware of just how dirty she is.

Several days before she got sick Clarke had given herself a bath of sorts during one of the heavier periods of downpour. She broke off a few bushes of pine needles from a tree and stripped down, scrubbing her skin with the needles. It didn’t make her skin feel as fresh as she had hoped, but the needles did leave a nice scent on her skin, and the rain rinsed away most of the dirt and grime she had collected in her two weeks of woods-living. Clarke wonders if this woman had seen her bathing herself, as it was only two days later that she had showed up with the medicine. Modesty was not exactly forefront in her mind at the time, though, and she decides it doesn’t matter if the woman has seen her naked, because she was surely far more weak and vulnerable when she was dying of food poisoning.

Clarke looks back to the brunette who is watching her and bites her bottom lip, feeling a little self-conscious about her current state of cleanliness, or lack thereof. The woman studies her a moment longer, then turns and disappears behind the metal door. She emerges with two large furs in her hands and lays them down on the far end of the room near a plush, fur-covered chair. She makes quick work of blowing out all the candles except for one, which she takes in her hand and moves toward the metal door. Sparing Clarke one last glance, she disappears behind the door once more, and Clarke is left in darkness.

Clarke moves toward the furs and sits down. Her thoughts are racing but she’s too tired to pay them any mind. She doesn’t care if she can trust this woman, but something tells her she can. The girl lays down on her back and lets out a sigh at the softness of the furs. They are a luxury she hasn’t had in what feels like an age, and, whether she deserves the comfort or not, she at least appreciates it.

Clarke wills her mind to quiet as she closes her eyes, but after what feels like only seconds, there’s a hand on her shoulder shaking her lightly. She sits bolt upright, trying to see past the blistered bodies that obscure her vision. Blinking rapidly, she feels tears escape and stream down her cheeks. The blonde wipes at her face and opens her eyes to meet a familiar gaze – ever stoic, ever silent. The woman withdraws her hand from Clarke’s shoulder as soon as their eyes meet, rising off her knees and moving back several steps.

Clarke’s throat is raw from screaming through her nightmare and she immediately regrets coming to this village. How many people must have heard her? She hates the heat that flushes her face in the dark, and she hates the eyes she feels boring into her from the woman who has now witnessed just how weak she is. Clarke rises quickly to her feet and stares into the darkness at her silent companion. She takes a breath to steady her resolve, picks up her pack from the floor, and makes her way to the door. She can’t stay here, not anymore. She doesn’t know this woman and the last thing she needs is an audience as she gradually loses herself to the pain and haunt of the mountain.

“Nomon?”

Clarke freezes with her hand on the door handle and turns swiftly around. The door to the other room has opened, and a small form stands in its frame. She looks back to the woman who is now making her way over to the child and watches her shuffle him back into the other room, closing the door behind him. She then walks back to the door and, after meeting Clarke’s gaze, she pulls the pack from the blonde’s hand, who lets it go without resistance. “Stay, Wanheda,” she says softly. “Rest. You are safe here.”

After a moment, Clarke simply nods, taking her hand off the doorknob. She makes her way back to the furs and settles in, only looking up when the woman places her pack next to her once more. She looks like she might say something, but instead the woman turns to head back into the other room and then Clarke is alone again.

                                                  

Despite the woman’s assurances that she is safe, Clarke can’t bring herself to fall asleep again. So she lays in the darkness and lets her thoughts run rampant. Who was that child? Who is this woman who has been taking care of her? More importantly, _why_ is she taking care of her?

Clarke was shocked to hear her speak. She had almost come to assume that the woman was mute, because what other reason did she have for remaining silent? Clarke had kept silent as well, but that was mostly just out of fear of hearing her own voice. She isn’t sure if she is more afraid that her voice might sound different, or that it will sound the same. Clarke doesn’t feel like the same person she was before she came to the ground, before she burned 300 warriors, before she killed Finn, before she murdered 382 people with the pull of a lever. Hell, she doesn’t even feel like the same person she was before she left Camp Jaha, and that was less than three weeks ago. She has let death consume her since then, let it mangle her into something she barely recognizes. So why would her voice be the same? And if it is the same, maybe that’s worse. Maybe that means she always had this in her, this killer she has become. The blonde feels her eyes well with more tears, but she won’t let these ones fall. She doesn’t want to risk making any more noise. She has already caused enough trouble for one night.

The first hints of light eventually begin to infiltrate the cottage through its one window, and Clarke breathes a sigh of relief. Hours of silent reflection have consumed her and she knows she won’t last much longer in the stillness of the night. When the light through the window gets stronger, Clarke hears quiet murmuring through the door to the other room, and she sits up, craning to listen. It’s no use though, as moments later the door opens and she sees the woman walk out, followed closely by the child she had seen in the night. The boy makes his way over to the hearth and begins piling logs on top of the ash from last night’s fire, while the woman grabs a small canvas sack and a few pieces of a red fruit, then brings them to the table. She begins slicing the fruit and, after the boy is finished making the fire, she hands several chunks of it to him as well as a few strips of dried meat. He takes them and moves to sit in the armchair near Clarke. Neither one of them has spoken or looked at Clarke, except for a few furtive glances the boy shoots her as he sits in his chair, chewing his food.

Feeling a little awkward, Clarke rises to her feet and moves toward the table, and the woman looks up at her as she holds out some meat for the blonde to take. “Thank you,” she says as she takes it and sits down at the table. Her voice is still scratchy and weak, and she suspects that is just as much due to her screaming as it is from underuse these past few weeks. The woman simply nods in response and continues chewing. The meat is dry and chewy, but still has more flavor than anything the 100 had managed to cook. Clarke helps herself to a slice of the fruit next and is barely able to suppress a moan as she takes her first bite. It is sweet and tart and juicy, and the flavor overwhelms her mouth with each bite she takes.

After several minutes of eating in silence, the woman rises and looks to the boy, who is now finished eating. “Glong oyun lukot raun kom taim sanch,” she says, and he gets up and walks toward the front door. He shoots Clarke a quick, shy glance before catching his mother’s eye, and then he is out the door without a word. The woman disappears into the other room and returns carrying a pile of cloth, which she sets on the table next to Clarke. Then she moves to the fire and grabs two of the four large kettles that sit on its grate. She pours their contents into the wash basin and repeats the action with the second two kettles. Next she carries the kettles out the front door but returns quickly, having apparently refilled them, and she pours that water into the basin as well. After repeating this process twice more, the woman holds out the kettles to Clarke and nods toward the door. Clarke complies, taking the kettles and moving toward the door. She continues the woman’s task, filling the tub with water collected from a large rain barrel in front of the house.

Meanwhile, the woman has disappeared into the other room again. Clarke makes several more trips before the woman reappears fully dressed and hair braided the way Clarke had grown accustomed to over the past week. The usual weapons are fixed to her body except her bow and quiver, which are hanging on a hook near the door. She grabs them and secures them to her back, then moves toward the open door. She looks back at Clarke briefly, then the basin, before walking out and shutting the door behind her. Clarke stares at the door for a moment then looks back to the basin, which is now relatively full, and comprehension dawns on her. The bath is for her. A smile almost touches her eyes as she has probably never been in more need of a bath than right now.

Sorting through the pile of cloths, Clarke finds two washrags and a towel in addition to a fresh set of clothing. She grabs the two small cloths and the towel and places them next to the tub. She makes quick work of stripping down to nothing, not bothering to pull the curtain shut that hangs from a rod on the ceiling. She is fairly certain her hosts intend to stay away for a while, and she feels slightly anxious at the thought of being confined to such a small space, even if just by a cloth.

Clarke steps into the basin and lets out a sigh as the warm water seeps into her skin. It comes up just past her knees, and there is enough room to sit in it comfortably but Clarke doesn’t move to sit just yet. Instead she dunks one of the cloths into the water and brings it to her face, wiping away the sweat and dirt she had collected for nearly a week. She moves the cloth down her neck, past her collar bone and over her breasts, leaving her skin tingly where grime had been moments before. She wipes down the rest of her body as best she can, and when the cloth is dirtier than her body she discards it and drops into the bath. A shelf behind the basin holds several small clay pots, in which Clarke discovers a variety of scented oils and soaps. She chooses a lavender paste to lather onto the second washcloth and starts scrubbing her body more thoroughly this time, slowly rubbing small circles into her skin and making it tingle more.

When she is finished with her body the girl sinks lower into the basin until she is completely submerged. She breaks the surface moments later and spreads the same lavender soap through her hair, massaging her scalp as she works it in. The next time she dunks her head she stays beneath the water, letting the silence flood her ears but for the small bubbles she lets escape her mouth. When her lungs run out of air she breaks the surface for a second time and rises to her feet. Clarke worries that if she allows herself to relax any further, the calm that has spread through her will begin to break down the walls she has built to contain her grief and guilt. So she quickly dries off and steps out of the tub, then picks up her dirty clothes and dunks them into the water. She scrubs them as best she can before wringing them out and hanging them on the bar next to the bunched up curtain. The water is now too murky to see the bottom, but Clarke remembers where the drain plug is so she reaches in and pulls it out, then moves to the table to get dressed.

After several minutes of struggle Clarke is able to get dressed – the most difficult part had been figuring out the chest wrapping in lieu of a bra. She wears a dark tank top under a light blue tunic-style shirt that hangs to her mid-thigh. The sides of the tunic are tattered and strappy, but kept close to her body by a leather cord that wraps around her waist, tied in front. Dark leggings made partially from cloth, partially from leather cover the flexible briefs-style underwear, and hug her legs tightly. Finally, soft knitted socks peek out a few inches above the blonde’s boots, reaching halfway up her calves.

Once she is dressed Clarke makes her way to the door. The fire has heated the hut considerably, and she worries if she stays any longer the warmth will lull her to sleep. She takes in a deep breath and opens the door, walking out onto the path. She hears voices nearby but luckily doesn’t see anyone, so she moves down the path in the direction of the forest, in the direction of silence. She reaches the trees after just a short walk and lets the silence creep over her, drawing her in. That is, until a scream breaks through the trees. Well, not so much a scream as a war cry, and moments later she sees a group of children crashing through the forest, far enough not to notice her standing there. She moves to follow them, sticking close to the trees to stay hidden.

As she draws nearer to where they have stopped Clarke peers at them from around a tree. They are all wearing pieces of makeshift armor, scraps of metal or leather covering their chests and forearms. Each child also yields some kind of wooden weapon, daggers and swords and dull-ended spears all clashing against each other in the throes of battle. Laughter and more war cries fill her ears as Clarke watches the little warriors fight. She sees one boy sweep his opponent, but rather than finishing the fight he reaches out to help the other boy up and runs off to aid an older looking girl in her fight. Clarke recognizes the boy as the grounder woman’s son. She hadn’t had the chance to get a good look at him before so she lets her gaze linger on him as he fights, taking in his features for the first time.

He is smaller than most of the other children, but he is quick on his feet and is easily one of the most skilled fighters. Clarke is fascinated by how disciplined and succinct he is in every strike and parry, anticipating his opponent’s next move and shifting gracefully out of the way or into a defensive stance. He rarely allows his opponent to land a strike. His hair is not cropped short or held back in braids like the rest. Instead, the boy’s light brown poofy curls are free to bounce with his every motion. His dark olive skin reminds her of Lincoln, though she thinks the boy might be a few shades lighter. And, despite his superior technique, there is a gentleness, an innocence about him. There is softness in his eyes as he helps his allies up more than he strikes his opponents down.

After several minutes have passed, one group starts to retreat, and the boy’s group follows, releasing more war cries into the air. The hint of a smile lights Clarke’s eyes as she watches them go, but she turns back to the village instead of following them. Seeing the toy weapons reminded her that her own weapons are still in the hut, and she feels naked and exposed without them. So she makes her way back up the path.

She retrieves her weapons and replaces them on her person, but the shelf in the corner catches her eye before she turns to leave. In addition to the wood carvings and candles, there are several books lining its surface, and Clarke moves toward it to investigate. She is slightly surprised there are any books here at all, as she knows that very few grounders apart from warriors speak or understand English. It didn’t occur to her that any of them could read English, either. Some books Clarke recognizes, some she doesn’t, but a leather bound book without markings draws her attention, and she picks it up. The first several pages are filled with crudely drawn maps and the rest of the pages are blank. She studies the maps a little closer, wondering if she would be able to figure out where she is, but her inspection is interrupted when the door opens suddenly.

Looking up, Clarke sees the grounder woman standing in its frame and peering over at her. Her eyes scan the book in Clarke’s hands before meeting her gaze, and then she approaches her. Clarke feels slightly disconcerted at the woman’s sudden appearance, and she quickly replaces the book on the shelf. When the woman reaches the blonde she holds out a bow and quiver, her own set still strapped to her back. Clarke stares at it for a few seconds before she looks up at the woman again. “I don’t know how to use those,” she says, voice still scratchy. The woman doesn’t reply, but continues to hold them out to her, so she concedes and takes them. At that, the woman gives her a firm nod and turns on her heal.

“You will learn,” she says over her shoulder before exiting the hut. Clarke moves to follow, shutting the door behind her.

They walk down the same path Clarke had used earlier, a straight shot to the woods. After walking for around a half hour, the woman turns abruptly to face the blonde, pressing her index finger to her lips, before turning around and continuing on. Clarke finds this slightly amusing, as she hasn’t spoken since they left the hut, and she and this woman had spent the better part of a week together in total silence. But, after a few more steps the woman turns around again, narrowing her eyes. “You are too loud, Wanheda,” she says, and realization dawns on the blonde. She _is_ being noisy. Or at least, she’s not being silent like her companion. She opens her mouth to respond but stops herself… That is the second time the woman has used that title for her, and she has no idea what it means. She recognizes the second part to mean ‘commander,’ but she assumes the whole word put together must mean something different because Clarke is far from being a commander of anything.

“Wanheda?” she asks, each syllable feeling strange on her tongue. But the woman just shakes her head and points to Clarke’s feet, then places her finger on her lips again. Clarke nods, deciding that now probably isn’t the time for questions, and moves to follow the woman as she continues walking. The blonde studies the woman as she walks, dissecting each step. The edge of the grounder’s boot is first to land before she shifts her weight to the rest of her foot, launching her next step from the ball of her foot with a deep bend in her knee. She moves swiftly and places each step carefully but confidently. Clarke does her best to mimic this, paying closer attention to where she steps. It feels foreign and clumsy at first, but after a few minutes she starts to get the hang of it. The girl starts to feel slightly wild creeping through the trees this way, and she lets her body adapt to the prowess. Her shoulders shift back from their previously slumped position and she feels more centered, more grounded.

They walk for a little while longer before the woman stops for a third time, crouching low. A surge of adrenaline rushes Clarke’s body when the woman touches her finger to her ear and looks around. Clarke crouches low in response and strains to hear what the grounder is hearing. Then then the woman points ahead of them and Clarke is somewhat relieved to see a buck emerge slowly through the trees. He has yet to notice the two women standing less than ten yards away, and Clarke is pleased with her new ability to move so quietly.

The woman rises slowly out of her crouch and taps at her bow and then at an arrow, then nods at Clarke, who obeys the silent command. The blonde takes the bow off her shoulder and knocks an arrow clumsily, taking aim at the buck. A familiar heaviness presses down on her. It spreads to her chest and smothers her lungs, but she doesn’t let it settle. She can’t afford to let it take control, not now. So instead, she surrenders herself to the hatred that is always kept just below the surface, allowing it to flood her veins, chill her heart and focus her mind. Her body is tired of the killing but her mind knows she has no choice. If not this buck, then some other life will eventually end by Clarke’s hands. She lets that thought and her cold resolve suppress her conscience while she steadies her aim.

Then, the grounder is next to her, guiding her elbow upward so that her bent arm is parallel to the ground. Gentle fingers spread over Clarke’s hand, adjusting her grip on the bow, and it is all Clarke can do not to recoil from the connection. But there is also a piece of Clarke’s heart that screams for her to lean into the touch, into any human contact at all. Something about this woman’s silent instruction brings Clarke comfort, and she allows that comfort to strengthen her resolve. Then the woman moves behind her and places one hand on each shoulder. This time Clarke doesn’t hesitate to do what is being asked of her, dropping her shoulders in her best effort to release the built up tension there. Finally, the woman makes her way back to Clarke’s line of sight, takes a deep breath, and nods. Clarke accepts her last instruction, sucking in a steadying breath and releasing the arrow on her exhale, as she learned to do with her gun.

The arrow soars through the air and closes the distance to the deer in seconds, but it lands several feet above its head and lodges in a tree. The buck startles immediately and bounds away. Before Clarke can process what has happened the woman is already moving to align herself with the fleeing animal, bow knocked and arrow raised in one swift motion. The next moment the arrow is flying after the deer who has already tripled his distance, and it lands in the back of his neck seconds later. The woman moves quickly toward the now fallen buck and Clarke scrambles to follow, ripped from her trance. By the time the blonde has reached the pair, the woman is sliding her blade into the buck’s throat and murmuring “yu gonplei ste odon,” reverence evident in her tone and in her eyes.

Clarke stares at the buck for a moment before she kneels and places her hand on his shoulder, closing her eyes. She waits for guilt creep over her but it never comes. She plays the scene over in her head and quickly recognizes how different this woman’s hunt had been from her own just over a week ago. The grounder’s actions were methodical. Quick, deliberate, ritualistic. She is not sustained or fueled by hate like Clarke, nor is she riddled with guilt. She is simply at peace with what it takes to survive. Yes, a life was ended. But it was not a squandered life. Rather, it was a life given purpose in death.

Clarke allows that notion wash over her before she opens her eyes and rises to her feet, meeting the woman’s gaze for further instruction. She had expected to find amusement or even annoyance in the woman’s eyes at her moment with the deer, but instead she finds warmth and maybe even sympathy. Clarke forces herself to look away. This is the first time she has seen any emotion touch the woman’s eyes and she is overwhelmed by her ability to communicate so much understanding without a single word. Tears begin to well and the woman is perhaps able to perceive Clarke’s need for a moment alone, as she wanders off through the trees. Clarke wipes at her face and silently curses her lack of composure. She takes a few deep breaths and lets them out slowly, willing her face to become impassive. She knows there isn’t much point in trying to hide her emotions from this woman who has already seen her exposed and vulnerable, but Clarke is tired of feeling weak and helpless in her presence.

The grounder returns after a few minutes, dragging a long branch behind her. She grabs the rope that is slung across her body and kneels to bind the buck’s back feet together, branch placed between his legs. She repeats this action with his front feet and then points to the end of the branch, looking up at Clarke. The blonde slings her bow and quiver across her shoulder before moving into position, and then the two women hoist the branch onto their shoulders, Clarke sagging under the weight of the buck that hangs between them. You’d never know the grounder was hauling such a load by the way she walks, though. She still moves gracefully, posture erect, seemingly unfazed by the weight that has Clarke’s legs trembling. The blonde summons all the strength she can, but by the time they make it back into the village she is dripping with sweat and panting heavily.

Clarke is so focused on forcing her legs to keep moving that she hardly notices the eyes that follow her as she and the grounder make their way to the center of the village. When they reach the plaza that Clarke had seen the night before they are greeted by two burly grounder men, who take the buck and bring it to a stand on the other end. The product of many hunts is evident at this stand as a variety of game lay on counters or hang from the tent’s canopy, all in various stages of preparation. A man stands behind a table skinning several rabbits and looks up as the men approach with the buck. He looks over to the woman and sets his knife down.

“Os homplei, Eva,” he says with a smile. The woman, who Clarke realizes must be named Eva, offers him a nod in response but remains silent. It feels weird to think of the woman as ‘Eva.’ She never thought of the woman as having a name, just as she hadn’t thought of her having a voice, and it strikes Clarke that she ought to be more concerned with getting to know the person who has taken her in, seen her at her most vulnerable, and who is now teaching her how to hunt.

The man grabs a sack from a back table and hands it to Eva, then glances over at Clarke who is standing several feet away. He sucks in a sharp breath at the sight of her and looks back to Eva. He opens his mouth to speak, but Clarke sees Eva give a subtle shake of her head and the man hesitates, then closes his mouth, eyes widening in apparent understanding. He meets the blonde’s gaze once more and bows his head, leaving Clarke slightly embarrassed and utterly perplexed. Are newcomers _that_ uncommon in this village? Is this man mistaking Clarke for someone else? All she can do is drop her gaze and look away, and she is quite relieved when Eva tilts her head in the direction of the hut and begins to walk, a silent invitation for Clarke to escape her audience.

She follows closely behind Eva as they walk down the path, and this time it doesn’t escape her notice how many eyes are on her. She can hear people whispering to each other as she passes them and she fights to keeps her gaze locked on the back of Eva’s head, too wary to look at her audience but curious nonetheless.

When they finally reach the door to the hut Clarke lets out a sigh of relief. She walks in after Eva and shuts the door behind her, turning to face the room. She finds the boy sitting at the table carefully chopping what Clarke recognizes as mushrooms. He risks a glance at the blonde but ducks his head when their eyes meet and returns to his task. Clarke is slightly amused at his bashfulness after seeing how the little warrior behaves outside of her presence. She thinks maybe if she makes an attempt to communicate with him that he might relax around her some, but she doesn’t know enough Trigedasleng and she doubts he knows any English.

Meanwhile, Eva has deposited her bow, quiver and short sword in the back room, and Clarke removes her own borrowed weapons, handing them over. But the woman doesn’t take them. Instead, she pushes them back to the blonde’s chest and shakes her head. Clarke sighs but relents, moving to place them on the ground next to her furs. She doesn’t like being gifted these things when she’s done nothing to deserve them, but she knows it’s a little late to start rejecting the woman’s generosity at this point.

Nonetheless, Clarke is beginning to feel guilty about how little she has to offer this woman who has provided so much for her. She looks back to the counter where Eva is cutting up some raw meat, presumably the contents of the sack the butcher had given her. Clarke wants to help, to contribute in some way, but she has no idea what she can do.

“Ai ste odon, Nomon,” she hears the boy say, and she turns to look at him.

“Os. Nau kot emo op,” Eva responds, handing the boy a bundle of green chutes with little bulbs on the end. He nods and takes them, but Clarke steps up to the table and reaches out toward the bundle just before he starts chopping. Both Eva and the boy freeze suddenly and stare at Clarke, so she drops her hand and steps back, feeling a little awkward. She meets Eva’s gaze and after a moment of deliberation, the woman gives her a nod and grabs a knife from the counter, handing it to the blonde.

“Niko, teik em dula op,” she says to the boy, nodding in the direction of the armchair. He rises and makes his way to the chair, glancing at Clarke as he sits. Clarke takes the knife from Eva and sits where Niko had sat, then begins to chop the bundle. After watching Clarke for a few seconds, Eva returns to her task on the counter, seemingly satisfied.

Clarke takes her time with the stalks, letting her hands fall into a methodical rhythm as she chops. She is pleased to finally be put to use rather than standing around and letting the others do all the work. As she finishes each chute she pushes it toward the pile of mushrooms, noting how neatly they are chopped. She can’t help but to admire this boy, Niko, who can’t be more than six, but who seems to have the competence of a much older child. He is able to build a decent fire and is clearly proficient in meal preparation, not to mention his remarkable combat skills. Clarke has never met any other grounder children, but she knows this boy is special.

When Clarke is finished Eva takes the chopped piles and brings them over to the fire, tossing them and the chopped meat in a pan that hangs from the hearth. After several minutes of sizzling, a mouthwatering smell fills the hut and the blonde’s stomach growls appreciatively.

The three of them eat in silence, Clarke and Eva sitting at the table and Niko in his armchair. It feels oddly domestic despite the quiet, and Clarke reflects on this unlikely turn of events. She never would have guessed that she would wander the woods for weeks just to settle into a grounder family’s daily routine. And although Clarke knows she is broken beyond repair, she can’t help but let a small fragment of contentment lodge into her heart. Because despite all the blood on her hands, all the deaths in her soul, she is still capable of being normal, of being human. She is still capable of sitting in a warm, safe home, and sharing a meal with a family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> “Glong oyun lukot raun kom taim sanch” – Join your friends until lunch  
> “Yu gonplei ste odon” – Your fight is over. (You guys know this one, right?)  
> “Os homplei, Eva” – Good hunt, Eva.  
> “Ai ste odon, Nomon,” – I’m done, mother  
> “Os. Nau kot emo op” – Good. Now chop (cut) these.  
> “Niko, teik em dula op” – Niko (Nee-koh), let her do it
> 
>  
> 
> So we've had a day in the life of a grounder, here! I wanted to slow things down and really see Clarke's experience meeting Eva and Niko. What did you all think? Do you like seeing the day to day? I'm really interested in exploring the grounder lifestyle and grounder politics since we didn't get much of those things in the show and it's so much fun to imagine, so look forward to that in the chapters to come! 
> 
> Thanks for reading! Much love!


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm so sorry for the long delay! You know, holidays and stuff. Just getting back from HAWAII (!!!) so I've finally finished chapter 4. I have to be honest, I'm back and forth on this chapter, but I think that might be just because I've been sitting on it so long, writing a bit and adding more here and there, so I've read it too many times. So PLEASE let me know what you think in the comments! As always, thanks for reading. Much love!
> 
> (Translations are in end notes.)

Clarke takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. She draws the arrow back and takes aim at the beast that is bounding toward her. Eva is watching her calmly, which Clarke finds entirely inappropriate given the circumstances. Eva should really be the one to shoot this savage gorilla as Clarke is only just learning how to use a bow and arrow. But she doesn’t have time to think about that as the angry animal is now just twenty yards away. She raises her bow slightly, aiming for its chest, but all of a sudden time seems to slow. Eva has moved behind Clarke and is pressing down on her shoulders just as she had with the buck, so Clarke drops them, but the hands remain firmly in place. Confused, the blonde risks a glance over her shoulder and she sucks in a gasp. Rather than meeting Eva’s brown eyes she is shocked to encounter dark green. Clarke jerks out of the Commander’s grip and staggers away, keeping a wary eye on her as she moves.

The next moment the trees that surround them begin to dissolve until the two women are surrounded by canvas and candlelight. Clarke peers around the war tent expecting the pauna to jump out at any moment, but instead… “ _Klark._ ” She spins at the sound of her name and finds Lexa much closer than she thought, arm outstretched and gaze pleading. Those dark green eyes are boring into her with an intensity that knocks the breath out of her. Tears well in her eyes as she shakes her head slowly, suppressing the urge to close the distance between them.

“You left me,” Clarke croaks as a traitorous stream of tears escapes and runs down her cheek. She takes a deep breath and wills her eyes to stay locked on the Commander’s. “I trusted you and you betrayed me!” She is finding her fire now. How can Lexa just stand there as if nothing had happened? As if her decision isn’t the reason Clarke is now hollowed out, shattered, destroyed? The Commander takes a step forward and grabs Clarke’s wrist but she shakes it off and backs away.

“I made that choice with my head and not my heart,” she says softly. “I’m sorry, Clarke. It brought me no pleasure to do so.” She drops her head slightly and looks up at Clarke through heavy lids.

“Well you should be pleased, at least all _your_ people survived!” Clarke sobs, and she can feel her walls breaking down.

After a moment, Lexa drops her gaze. “Not everyone… Not you.”

That takes Clarke off guard. Not her? She did survive, is _still_ surviving… But then she feels a sharp pain rip at her heart and she looks down to see blood soaking her shirt. A wave of nausea pulls her to the floor as blood continues to flow from the wound in her chest. Then Lexa is kneeling next to her, taking Clarke’s head between her hands.

“Shh, Clarke. It’s okay. You’re okay,” she says, bringing Clarke’s head to her chest. “Life is about more than just surviving… You deserve better than that,” she whispers.

Clarke lets those soothing words wash over her and she leans into the embrace, warmth surging through her. She feels Lexa’s steady heartbeat thump in her ear and she slows her breaths to match Lexa’s.

After a moment her head is gently pulled up and away from Lexa’s chest, and she feels lips crush against hers, soft at first, then a little more urgent. Clarke hesitates, anxious and uncertain, but then she surrenders herself to the kiss. She is too weak to push Lexa away anymore. She doesn’t _want_ to push Lexa away. The warmth spreads deeper and collects in her chest, numbing the pain of her wound. And the more consumed she is by those lips against hers, the more she feels the pain in her chest subside, until it disappears altogether. Clarke pulls away from Lexa to look down and there is no longer any blood. Not a trace is left. Lexa kisses her forehead, then the corner of her eye, then her cheek. She presses a line of kisses down Clarke’s jaw until she reaches her throat, releasing the moan suppressed there.

“Lexa,” she breathes, tangling her hands into wavy brown hair. But as soon as she grabs ahold of her, Lexa disappears. Clarke is alone. “Lexa!” she screams, but it’s no use. The Commander is gone.

Clarke startles awake and looks desperately around the room until she realizes where she is. The canvas is gone, replaced by the wood and metal walls of Eva’s hut. Grief and longing flood her veins and the same pain from her dream sears through her chest. But there is no blood, no wound. Clarke clutches at her chest and struggles to breathe, sucking in sharp, uneven breaths. She is beginning to hyperventilate. She bends forward until her head is pressed against her furs and she lets out a choked sob, eyes flooding and tears spilling onto the furs beneath her. She claws at her chest as she lets out another sob, sharp nails drawing some of the pain from her heart to her skin’s surface.

Flashes of bodies join the Commander’s face behind Clarke’s eyelids, reinforcing the stabbing in her chest. Out of all the nightmares she has had, this was by far the most painful. But it was a different kind of pain. It was the pain of yearning and affection. Need, desire, loss. All the things Clarke had shut out weeks ago because she knew they would consume her otherwise. She has let hatred and remorse keep her company in their stead. Except… She can’t refuse her heart when she’s asleep.

Clarke hates herself for being so weak. She hates Lexa for making her weak. The Commander left her to die on that mountain, left Clarke with no other choice than to murder them all. It doesn’t matter if she understands the Commander’s decision – Clarke has no right to feel anything but hatred. And yet her heart betrays her.

Once she is able to breathe again Clarke rises to her feet. She can’t allow these thoughts to consume her. The first hint of light makes its way through the window as Clarke dresses and she knows Eva will be up soon. In the three days since Clarke had come to this village, Eva had woken her at sunrise and taken her to the woods where they hunted, practiced shooting targets, and just yesterday Clarke had learned how to make an arrow. Her left arm is so sore it hurts to touch it and her fingers are slightly raw from pulling the bow string tight. Worst of all, however, are the welts that cover the inside of her right arm. It had taken Clarke the better part of a day to learn to hold the bow in a way that kept the string from snapping her arm and she had payed dearly for her steep learning curve. Eva gave her a leather wrist guard the following day but Clarke is pretty sure the woman withheld it the first time to ensure she learned her lesson the hard way.

Clarke grabs her weapons and walks quietly to the door. She is on the verge of falling apart and she doesn’t want Eva and Niko to see her this way. It’s bad enough that Eva wakes her from her nightmares every night, she doesn’t need to show her weakness during the day too. She opens the door slowly and shuts it lightly behind her, then turns down the barely lit path towards the forest.

The blonde walks for a long time, until the midmorning sun easily breaks through the trees and shines in her eyes. She has a vague idea of her direction – she thinks she is heading toward a lake Eva had led her past on their way back from a hunt the other day. After several minutes more she is finally able to glimpse the body of water through the trees. Her stomach gives a grumble, pleading with her to return to the village, but she ignores it. The lake is beautiful, serene. The water is glassy and the sun reflects brightly off its surface.

Clarke comes to a stop at a peak overlooking the lake, maybe twenty feet from the water’s surface. The water is glassy and the sun is bright, and Clarke has to squint to see across it. There are no fishermen here today, nor are there any other people. Clarke is alone and she is grateful to be so. She takes in a deep breath, closing her eyes as she inhales. The air is sweeter here and the sunshine is warming her, and she almost feels at peace, but for the nagging memory of her dream and the accompanying image of bodies. The bodies never go away.

But Clarke needs a break. She needs a moment, just a moment of quiet in her mind, whether she deserves it or not. Without really thinking about it she begins to take off her clothes, stopping just shy of nude with only her briefs and her breast binding to cover her. While she is fairly sure there is nobody around she is well aware of how stealthy grounders can be, and she doesn’t want an audience while she’s naked.

A breeze sweeps over the lake and greets Clarke with a slight chill, and she welcomes it. Her exposed skin is tingling and goose bumps are beginning to spread across her arms and legs. She opens her eyes and glances down at the water below her. It’s so smooth that, if not for the slight rippling from the breeze, Clarke would think it was glass. A sudden impulse rises through her. Everything is at peace but her mind – she feels Lexa’s lips against hers, sees the Commander walking away, sees bodies and bodies and bodies… And the water is too smooth. The air is too peaceful. Clarke inhales sharply and hurls herself over the edge of the cliff with a surge of adrenaline, and then she is falling, falling, falling…

She crashes deep into the water, a sudden heavy silence engulfing her ears. In the seconds that she plummets deeper she opens her eyes and strains to see the choppy surface, pleased that it is no longer so still, so serene. After a moment she begins to rise, letting out little bubbles of air on her way up. She has never swam before, other than when she escaped the mountain, and that didn’t exactly count since Anya had helped her. Clarke is quickly realizing the implications of this. The water is too deep for her to touch the bottom and she is almost out of air.

Clarke starts to panic and her body takes over. She begins flailing out her arms and legs in an effort to rise more quickly, her lungs beginning to throb. She breaks the surface for a short second before she is submerged again, only able to gasp a hollow breath.

She concentrates all of her attention on her arms and legs, kicking as hard as she can and pushing down with her hands. After clumsily repeating these motions a few times, Clarke is able to break the surface again, and this time she kicks harder to stay there. She takes in several desperate breaths, her heart rate slowing slightly. She leans forward in the direction of a rocky slope nearby that is less steep than the cliff she had jumped off of.

The blonde keeps up her clumsy swimming and after a minute her kicking feet start to make contact with the lake bottom. She plants them in the muck and stands. The water only comes up to her shoulders here and she is a few yards from the rocky shore. As Clarke’s heartrate slows and heartache replaces the pain of burning lungs, she realizes that nearly drowning had kept her despair at bay. So she leans back and lets her body float out again, stopping only when she can no longer reach the bottom.

 

*****

 

The sun is beginning to sink in the sky by the time the blonde wades out of the water. She has spent the past several hours teaching herself how to swim, or at least how not to drown. The adrenaline’s effect on her thoughts had faded, and in the past several minutes all she could think about was what Lexa had said: “You deserve better than that.” _You deserve to live._ But Clarke knows that’s a lie. She lost the right to live after the mountain. She lost the right to live so that her people still could. She knows this, and yet… She had let Lexa in, let her break down her walls while she was sleeping and vulnerable. She had allowed herself to be comforted, allowed Lexa to take away her pain. And God did it feel good to be held, to be kissed, to be cared for… Even if just in a dream. But she doesn’t have the right to any of that. Not anymore.

She plops down a few yards up the shore and stares vacantly out at the mellowing water. A noise from behind makes her jump and she turns to see Eva walking up with two rabbits in one hand and Clarke’s clothes in the other. The woman stops next to Clarke and drops her clothes on the ground, following Clarke’s gaze to the lake. The blonde starts to pull the clothes on over her wet body and stands when she’s finished, looking to Eva. If she wasn’t so used to the woman’s silence she might expect questions about why she left this morning or where she has been all day, but Clarke knows the questions won’t come.

After a few moments Eva turns to leave and Clarke follows. They make their way back to the village but Eva veers off in the direction of the plaza rather than the hut. As they approach the butcher’s stand Clarke sees a little girl about Niko’s age in the butcher’s arms, talking animatedly to him. Clarke didn’t know he had a daughter. The girl turns when the butcher greets them and her eyes widen comically when she sees Clarke.

“Nontu chek au _,_ Wanheda!” she exclaims as she points to Clarke, who immediately feels heat rush to her cheeks. The butcher’s eyes widen too, but not because of Clarke. He shushes the girl and sets her down, then shuffles her away from the stand before turning back to the approaching women. But it appears the damage is done. Whispers of ‘Wanheda’ surround Clarke and Eva as nearly all the villagers in the plaza turn to look at them, evidently just now realizing who this blonde stranger is. Clarke is anxious and on the verge of fleeing, but Eva seems to sense this as she meets her panicked gaze with a slight shake of her head.

“Biyo moba, Eva, Wanheda,” the butcher says as he ducks his head in apology. Eva nods and hands the rabbits to him before turning on her heel and nodding for Clarke to follow. The whispers are turning to loud murmurs, and as they walk back toward the hut people start to approach Clarke, reaching out to her. She freezes when one of the older women grabs her arm as she passes, but Clarke stops herself from wrenching free. She looks back at the old woman who is bent into a bow. This takes Clarke off guard, as she has only ever seen grounders do this when addressing their Heda.  

“Mochof Wanheda _,_ Maun-de ripa _._ Mochof,” she says reverently, and all Clarke can do is stare, still frozen. Until Eva touches the woman’s shoulder, drawing her attention away from the blonde. Eva nods at her, then moves her hand to Clarke’s back, firmly guiding her out of the plaza.

When they reach the hut Eva pushes her in and closes the door behind her. She guides her over to the table where Niko sits, then pushes her down on the chair next to him. Clarke cooperates wordlessly, feeling quite unnerved by the encounter with the villagers.

“Niko, gyon au.” When Niko has left the hut, Eva looks back at Clarke.  “Breathe, Wanheda,” she says, and Clarke realizes she’s hyperventilating. She sucks in several more gasps, willing her body to stop shaking while she meets Eva’s stoic, calming gaze.

“What is ‘Wanheda?’ Clarke demands once she has gained control of her breathing. Eva holds her gaze for several long moments before sighing deeply and taking a seat.

“ _You_ are Wanheda.”

Clarke waits for an explanation, but Eva remains silent. So she tries again, more calmly this time. “What does it mean?” More silence. “Please, Eva.”

“It is the title you earned when you brought down the Mountain Men.” Seeing Clarke’s puzzled expression she adds, “the legend of Wanheda is already well known among the clans.”

“Why? How do you know what I did? How do you – how do _they_ – know who I am?” The questions spill out, all this repressed curiosity rising to the surface as she finally reaches her limit. “Why am I a legend?”

“You ended the reaping. You ended the Mountain Men. Wanheda, my people have been subjected to one hundred years of reaping, of death at the hands of the Maunon. You did what my people – what Heda and the armies of the twelve clans – have been unable to do for one hundred years. And you did it without an army of any kind. And then you disappeared. You fell from the sky and liberated us from our greatest enemy, then disappeared. You are a legend,” she concludes matter-of-factly.

Clarke just stares at her, lost for words as she absorbs what Eva is saying. A legend? No. She did what she had to do, what she was _forced_ to do to save her people. That was it. How can these people celebrate her when she can barely live with herself? “I killed them all… I killed _innocent_ people! Children! Clarke’s eyes are filling with tears but she doesn’t bother to stop them from falling. “And all I had to do was pull a lever!” Her voice cracks. “I am nothing more than a murderer,” she murmurs. “Your people celebrate a murderer.”

“You are no murderer. The Maunon were not innocent, Wanheda. The reaping ripped apart families. Fathers and sons were taken and turned to monsters. Women and children disappeared. Children were orphaned. My people honor you--

“No! Your Commander made a deal!” She screams. She sucks in a breath as more tears flow down her cheeks and she lowers her voice. “Your Commander saved you, not me. I killed three hundred and eighty two people to save forty seven. There is no honor in that.”

“You are wrong,” Eva replies, a note of finality in her tone. She rises to her feet and moves toward the counter, pulling out various cloth sacks and food items. This is the longest conversation Clarke has had with the woman, and Eva has apparently decided words are no longer necessary. But something is still nagging at Clarke.

“You didn’t answer my question. What does it mean?”

Eva pauses and studies her for a long moment, and Clarke can tell she is reluctant to answer. “Commander of Death.”

A lead weight drops in Clarke’s stomach. Commander of Death… Of course. These people all know she’s a murderer, so of course she’s the Commander of Death. Clarke had known she would never escape what she did, but she is now realizing that she can’t even hide from it. Now people will be praising her when all she can do is hate herself.

Clarke rises and walks toward the door. She needs out, she needs space. But a hand on her shoulder stops her from opening the door. She turns to Eva and is taken aback by the emotion she sees in the woman’s eyes; the woman she believed to be incapable of emotion. There is pain and pleading there, but also hesitation. Clarke waits in silence, not sure what to say. After a minute Eva finally speaks.

“Niko’s father was taken,” she almost whispers, the same emotion in her eyes lacing her words. “We thought him dead. We hadn’t seen him for several seasons. But the man we met was not the man who was taken from us…” She drops her gaze and Clarke waits, but Eva doesn’t continue.

“He was turned into a reaper,” Clarke says. Eva nods.

“We found him in the woods near the village. I was teaching Niko’s brother how to hunt. He tried to take me, but Niko’s brother charged at his father with a dagger. They died at each other’s hands, and Niko was forced to watch his brother kill his father to save me.” Though she tries to conceal it, pain is evident on Eva’s face, and Clarke’s heart wrenches for her. “Two summers have passed, but Niko is still plagued by nightmares. Just as you are,” she adds after a moment.

Clarke nods slowly, at a loss for words. This is too much. It isn’t possible. She has seen the sweetness, the innocence, the gentle nature of that little boy. How can he have experienced such horror and not be ruined by it? How can he still be so pure?

“I have seen you suffer, Wanheda,” Eva continues. “Ending a life is not easy for you. But my people do not just honor you for the death you brought to the Maunon. They honor you for the peace and safety you brought to us all.” She holds Clarke’s gaze a moment longer before moving back to the counter. Clarke grabs the door handle once more, but this time she looks to Eva before opening it. Eva nods and Clarke leaves. She walks to the forest as quickly as she can, not looking back until the trees obscure the village from sight.

 

*****

 

_Splash._ Once again Clarke stabs at the water, and once again there is nothing on the other end of her spear. She is standing in the middle of a creek not far from the village, feet going numb but face dripping with sweat. She’s been at this for hours, at least that’s how it feels. And Eva does nothing to help her. All she did was give Clarke a spear and point at the water, having resumed her silent demeanor in the days since their conversation about Wanheda. She stood there with her arm outstretched until Clarke complied. Now Eva stands upstream from her, spear in hand, having apparently given up on Clarke’s ability to catch their dinner. Niko sits on a rock nearby watching the two women, amusement lighting his face whenever the blonde lets her frustration show.

Clarke stills herself so the fish start to swim through her legs again and sets her sights on one of the larger ones. She tries to adjust her posture to match Eva’s: legs shoulder width apart, knees bent, weight centered. She takes a deep breath and plunges, fish scattering as soon as her spear breaks the surface. Having missed all the fish, Clarke’s spear lodges in the creek bed. When she goes to pull the spear out it doesn’t budge, and the momentum from her yanking at it causes Clarke to lose her balance. Her feet slip out from under her, and seconds later she crashes into the water, back slamming onto the rocks below the water’s surface.

“ _Fuck_!” she shouts, pain searing through her back. She lets out a moan and slowly sits up, rolling onto her hands and knees and looking up at Eva. The woman makes no move to help her, just stares at Clarke with her usual stoic expression. This angers Clarke more. Why isn’t Eva teaching her how fish like she did with hunting? How is Clarke supposed to know how to do this on her own? It’s been hours and she hasn’t improved at all. She’s done. But just as Clarke opens her mouth to express these grievances, she hears laughter to her left. She looks over at Niko who is doubled over giggling. Every few seconds he looks up at Clarke, and what he sees seems to make him laugh even harder.

She glares at the boy when she catches his gaze, and suddenly the laughter is gone. Niko’s eyes widen with fear and he looks frantically to Eva, then back to Clarke. At that, all the frustration drains from her. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth, and before she can help herself she starts laughing too. She is on her hands and knees in a freezing cold creek, back throbbing in pain, and all she can do is laugh.

Clarke laughs at herself, she laughs at the alarmed look on Eva’s face, she laughs at the fish and at her pathetic attempts to catch them, and she laughs at this little boy who has no idea how to act around the great and mysterious ‘ _Wanheda_.’ Soon enough Niko starts giggling again, evidently having decided Clarke isn’t angry with him.

When her stomach is sore and she’s out of breath, she slowly rises to her feet and yanks the spear out of the creek bed, this time careful not to throw all her weight into it. She makes her way clumsily out of the creek and walks directly to Niko, holding out the spear towards him.

“If you think _I’m_ so funny, why don’t _you_ go out and catch one?” she asks with a wry smile. He looks slightly shocked that Clarke is speaking to him and clearly unsure of what to do, so he looks to his mother again. Clarke follows his gaze and sees Eva hesitate, then give a quick nod. Niko takes the spear from her and marches off to the creek, shoulders back and chest jutting out. Clarke shakes her head and rolls her eyes. She has a feeling that one of them is going to be humiliated very soon, and she doubts it will be the confident little boy.

Sure enough, after just a moment of preparation Niko thrusts the spear into the water and pulls out a large fish. He looks back at Clarke, holding the spear out in a taunting manner and flashes her a triumphant smile. Clarke shakes her head in disbelief, but recovers quickly as she makes her way out to him.

“Alright,” she says. “Teach me.” But Niko looks to Eva once more. She gives another hesitant nod, but doesn’t continue her own fishing. She instead keeps a close eye on Clarke. Niko looks up at Clarke and then back to the water below. As if moving in slow motion he exaggerates every movement as he thrusts the spear into the water, bending his knees to nearly a squat and rising slowly. He repeats this a few more times before handing Clarke the spear. She takes it and mimics his slowed movements, looking to him for guidance.

“Like this?” she asks. Niko shakes his head timidly, as if worried he might anger her. “It’s okay,” she tries to reassure him. “You can teach me.”

He points to her legs and says something in Trigedasleng, and Clarke thinks she understands. She widens her stance and he nods. His little fingers reach up to Clarke’s hands, but they just hover over hers as he hesitates, and she waits. After a moment he guides her right hand to grip lower on the handle and gives her another nod, standing back. She focuses her attention back to the water, waiting for the fish to collect around her feet once more. She targets one and thrusts quickly, but his time she feels her whole body surrender to the movement. When she pulls the spear out there is a fish on the end, and Clarke grins widely down at Niko who grins right back.

“You’re a good teacher,” she says, and his smile widens.

By the time the three of them make their way back to the village Clarke is starving, and she’s proud to have caught her three measly fish despite Eva’s ten. Her body is sore but her spirits are high and she feels light, unburdened. Something about the boy’s energy had brightened her and she couldn’t keep the smile off her face as Niko continued to help her in the stream. He adjusted her stance every now and then and spoke to her in Trigedasleng, and even though she couldn’t understand him, she liked to hear his voice. They giggled at her clumsiness together and celebrated her successes together, and Clarke had been so absorbed in their playful interaction that she stopped paying attention to Eva’s wary glances. She is captivated by his innocence.

Clarke helps Eva prepare their fish dinner, learning how to gut and scale the fish much more quickly than she had learned how to catch them. They eat in silence, but it isn’t a lonely silence. The warmth she feels from Niko’s presence stays with her even though he sits in his usual spot across the room, and the warmth carries with her until she’s settled into her furs for the night.

 

*****

 

Clarke wakes with a start, feeling the familiar hand on her shoulder. She is used to Eva waking her from her nightmares by now, but still regrets being such a burden to the family. Flashes of her dream fill her mind as she watches Eva return to her room through the darkness. This new nightmare had made its way into the rotation every night since Niko had taught Clarke to fish nearly a week ago. Clarke feels even guiltier having Eva wake her from this one, because rather than seeing her victims from the mountain, she sees a bleeding and dying Niko and Eva. She suspects the screaming must start when she looks to her hands and sees the blood dripping from them, because she is always woken right after she realizes that she has killed them.

Clarke tries to push the dream and the guilt away, knowing she needs more rest. Between her busy days full of training and her restless nights full of death, she is running on empty. She has gained quite a bit of strength since coming to this village, but being stronger makes no difference when she is so tired.

When light reaches Clarke’s eyes she assumes she must be having a new dream as she hasn’t been woken by Eva since the first one. But as her grogginess fades she accepts that it must be morning, because when she opens her eyes her vision is free of blood and bodies. Clarke feels incredibly well-rested and she quickly realizes she hadn’t had any more nightmares – she had slept through the rest of the night. She begins to stir, stretching her legs out from their curled position. But as she’s stretching she feels a heat pressed into her back, and she freezes. Then…

“Nikolai!” she hears the panicked cry of Eva from the other room. The door bursts open and Clarke rushes to sit up as Eva shoots across the room and to the front door in a flash, and just as she wrenches the door open she spares a glance in Clarke’s direction. Shock replaces the panic on her face and for a moment she just stares. It takes Clarke a second to realize what must have been pressed into her back, or moreover, _who_. A moment later Niko rises to his feet next to the blonde, eyes trained on the floor.

“Biyo moba, Nomon,” he says as he slumps toward the bedroom, refusing to look in his mother’s direction. Eva looks back and forth between her and Niko, obviously just as confused as Clarke is.

Had Niko slept next to Clarke last night? _Why?_ Clarke looks hesitantly toward Eva, but is relieved not to find anger in her face. Instead the woman follows her son into the back room, reemerging several minutes later fully dressed and dawning her weapons. She turns expectantly to Clarke, the girl still sitting half dressed in her furs, and crosses her arms. Clarke rises and dresses quickly, feeling a little uneasy. She suspects Eva must be angry despite her usual stoic expression.

It is no secret that Eva doesn’t trust Clarke with her son, and Clarke understands. She knows she would never harm the boy – regardless of her dreams – but she also knows she is considered dangerous and unpredictable by the grounders. Clarke can’t understand why Eva could consider her dangerous after witnessing how weak she is, but she doesn’t blame the woman for being protective of her only son.

Once dressed and armed, Clarke follows Eva out the door and into the woods. Niko isn’t trailing behind them like he usually does and Clarke suspects that was Eva’s decision rather than his. As the two women embark on their hunt, Clarke wonders at Niko. Why had he slept next to her? She wonders if he will be in trouble, she wonders if _she_ is in trouble, but most of all she wonders if he is the reason the nightmares had stayed away. She quickly pushes these thoughts away in favor of focusing on the hunt. She can’t risk feeling hopeful.

Clarke claims the first kill: a large rabbit. She had seen it before Eva but knew she didn’t have the precision necessary to shoot it, so she dropped her bow and looked to the woman, inviting her to take the shot. But the woman shook her head and gave Clarke a disapproving look. So Clarke took aim once more and resorted to her training – calming her body and clearing her mind, focusing solely on the animal that stood several yards away.

As a slightly shocked Clarke moves to retrieve her kill Eva breaks their tense silence, voice stern. “You must have more faith in your abilities, Wanheda.”

Clarke doesn’t respond as she stoops to pull the arrow out of the animal. “Yu gonplei ste odon,” she murmurs, as she has countless times in the past few weeks. She rises and places the arrow back in her quiver, holding the rabbit at her side. “I should have more faith in your training.” She holds Eva’s gaze as the woman studies her, but Clarke doesn’t give her the chance to respond. Instead, she changes the subject. “I didn’t know he was there,” she says quietly. “But I’m grateful that he was.”

Eva nods after a moment, but doesn’t speak, so Clarke decides to drop it. She turns away from the woman and walks away, heading further into the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> “Nontu chek au, Wanheda!” – Father look, Wanheda!  
> “Biyo moba, Eva, Wanheda” – I’m sorry, Eva, Wanheda  
> “Mochof Wanheda, Maun-de ripa. Mochof” – Thank you Wanheda, Mountain (Mount Weather) killer. Thank you.  
> “Niko, gyon au” – Niko, go  
> “Biyo moba, Nomon” – I’m sorry, Mother  
> “Yu gonplei ste odon” – Your fight is over
> 
>  
> 
> What did you think? I wanted to get some relationship development in there so we don't all go crazy inside Clarke's head! And she needs this I think.  
> I'm pretty excited to write the next two chapters, I have quite a bit planned out so all I've gotta do is put the words on paper. I hope you're enjoying this story so far! I'll try to be much quicker getting chapter 5 out!

**Author's Note:**

> So there we go, chapter one! It's a little slow going in the beginning, but bear with me, I promise it picks up! Hoping to be able to post every few days, but once a week at the least. I have a lot of fun ideas about where to take this. I can't wait to share them with you all! 
> 
> Comments are greatly appreciated, as are any bits of constructive criticism! Much love! 
> 
> PS. I'm almost done editing chapter two, so that may follow shortly.


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